


Sail a Greener Sea

by StormAnon



Series: A Storm Ashore [7]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-15
Updated: 2011-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormAnon/pseuds/StormAnon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela doesn't know how to deal with being a lying, thieving snake and dating the Champion. Hawke's tendency to flirt with every buxom barmaid, exiled prince, and elegant society matron she meets isn't helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sail a Greener Sea

It turned out that one Adrian Minuet Hawke, to the complete surprise and bafflement of pretty much everyone who knew her at all, absolutely loved all those ridiculous froofy parties that Kirkwall nobles were so fixated on throwing. It seemed very unlike the foul-mouthed rough-and-tumble card sharp mercenary they knew to enjoy slow dancing in a gaudy movement-imparing dress, particularly in the company of dozens of uptight arrogant nobles with nothing but disdain for Fereldens, mages, elves, and pretty much anything else Hawke cared about, but there it was; she announced every upcoming shindig with a delighted grin on her face and regularly ditched Wicked Grace night to attend them.

Of course, once Hawke had started inviting her motley crew of friends to the parties as well, cheerfully outfitting them in silk and velvet suitcoats and gaudy ruffled dresses of their own, it all made perfect sense. Hawke didn't care overmuch for nobles, but she _adored_ getting one over on anyone at all. And there were few pranks as satisfying to her as spending one night in the most ridiculous dress she could find and watching every highborn lady in Kirkwall spend the next month looking like drunken colorblind chickens in an attempt to follow the Champion's trend. Or seeing a "knife-eared slave" and a "pirate whore" wearing richer fabric and showing better manners than the sputtering nobles forced to eat off the same plate of hors d'oeuvres (Isabela was fond enough of that one herself to make the protocol lessons worth it, even had Hawke not found the most delightfully creative ways to entice her cooperation). Even the simple satisfaction of _tsk_ ing concernedly as some puffed-up lord complained about the influx of rabble to Hightown's taverns, ignorant to the fact that Hawke had deliberately opened a tab at the very richest for her Bone Pit workers, could keep her grinning like an idiot for hours.

Or there was the game she was playing now, leading the former Prince of Starkhaven around in a slow, sensuous circuit of the floor, dancing close enough to make him blush and occasionally whispering things in his ear with a wicked grin that made him blush even harder, while every smitten eligible bachelor in the room and every one of their social-climbing parents seethed through their pasted-on smiles.

And while Isabela looked on from where she leaned against the refreshment table, with an unfamiliar and very unwelcome churning in her chest.

Hawke was, for once, genuinely dressed to impress, in wine-red and shadowy black that hugged the curves of her hips and dipped to tease the sculpted muscle of her upper back, her hair out of its usual loose queue and flowing in dark ribboned tails around her shoulders, the same perfect, fluid grace in her dancing that she showed on the battlefield, sweeping Sebastian through the steps as artfully as she swept a broadsword, owning the whole room in every possible sense of the phrase. They were beautiful together, perfectly groomed, perfectly confident, open faces shining with that absurd innate goodness of theirs, comfortable in their familiarity and friendship. Hawke _fit_ here, surrounded by people as powerful and beautiful as her, in the arms of someone every bit as noble --

Isabela shook herself. Hawke had slept with exactly one man, whose name she claimed not to remember because it had been that unremarkable of an experience. She was an outrageous flirt, always had been, but so far as Isabela knew that was usually as far as it went, even with the women, and of course Sebastian had taken his ridiculous vow of chastity. They were only friends, and only ever would be. And even if they weren't, what did it matter? That had never been part of whatever was between her and Hawke. It wasn't even a week ago that she'd slept with Zevran to nothing but an eyeroll and a "don't be too long" from their erstwhile leader; balls, Hawke had even bought her six months at the Rose for her nameday a few years back! (Not that she had ever told Hawke her nameday, or even actually remembered it herself, but Hawke had a tendency to ignore inconvenient details like that.) They had no claim on each other, and Isabela liked things that way.

But did Hawke really have to give that _look_ to the Matron of Dunshire, or Lady of Dutchwick, or whatever meaningless title the woman had been announced with? Hawke's choice of attire at least made sense now; tonight was a night for quietly mocking the nobility with what they'd never have, and she was playing it to the hilt, plucking flowers from the hair of simpering ladies and leading doe-eyed young men around with the light pressure of a hand to a silken-clad chest, and always, always, springing away before they could stammer out a reply. Always finding her way back to another reel around the room in Sebastian's arms, his easy step a perfect compliment to her bold strength, his crimson brocade vest so near a match to Hawke's that they had to have planned it.

Still, if it had just been tonight, just this one evening, Isabela would have laughed at herself and moved on. If she hadn't lost six straight games of Diamondback last Sunday not because Hawke and Varric cheated (they did), or because Fenris was stupidly lucky (he was), but because she couldn't keep her eyes off of Hawke's inability to keep her eyes -- and apparently now quite welcome innuendoes -- off of Norah long enough to count cards. If she hadn't overpaid by a full gold piece on a hat that wasn't worth fifty silver because she was so distracted by Hawke's friendly arm around the clerk's shoulders.

Clearly this was becoming a serious problem.

Acting on no concrete plan (as usual) but trusting her first impulse (much less usual of late, now that she thought about it), Isabela strode into the crowd of nobles with the liquid prowl of a hunting predator. She was, of course, wearing a fancy, ruffle-laden dress (which Hawke had justified the gift of with the laughing excuse that its green and gold brought out her eyes), and had blended fairly well for most of the evening, but no amount of fancy wrapping could disguise the demeanor of a raider intent on a goal, and Hawke's guests parted around her like the sea before a prow, leaving dismay and confusion as her wake. The music changed, and she stepped right into Hawke and Sebastian's path, bringing them up short.

"Evening, Sebastian. Mind if I cut in?"

"Isabela..?" Sebastian blinked at her in momentary confusion, and tossed a quick glance at Hawke before turning back. "I... of course. My lady Hawke. My lady Isabela," he bowed politely, and turned toward the crowd, smoothly pulling another woman into the dance without missing a beat.

Isabela took his place, pulling Hawke's right hand into her left and placing the other on the small of her back. Hawke fell easily into step, offering Isabela a surprised smile. "Well this will cause a scandal," she murmured. "The Whitford is meant to be danced by couples."

"I'm sure you'll weather it," bantered Isabela, but somehow it wasn't the conspiratorial drawl she'd intended, but a sharp and snappish retort, and Hawke leaned back a bit, not quite breaking step, dark grey eyes searching amber.

"Bodahn?" she called out after a moment, and the dwarf appeared at their flank almost before Hawke finished speaking.

"Messere?"

"I'll be retiring for the evening. Please make my excuses to the guests." The corner of her mouth quirked up. "And kick their asses out no later than one, if you would."

"Of course, Messere."

And with that, Hawke, not taking her left hand off Isabela, made her way out to the moonlight of the inner courtyard, spilling pale between the trees of the small but well-kept Amell garden.

"You're angry," Hawke said softly, turning to face her.

"Yes! ...sort of. It's not --" Isabela sighed, and pushed back her hair in frustration, missing her scarf. "No. Not exactly."

"Is this about Castillon? Because -- I am sorry you didn't get your boat, Bela."

"Ship," corrected Isabela blankly, thrown for a moment by how Hawke could be simultaneously so perceptive and so utterly blind.

"Right, ship. And I know we laughed it off last night, but I was thinking --" Hawke looked down, an odd note in her voice. "The Bone Pit did really well this year, there's a little loose gold lying around, so if you wanted, we could go down to the docks tomorrow and look for one. For you, I mean. It only seems fair, I cost you one you'd have had otherwise."

Isabela stared.

Hawke didn't look up, one soft sandal toeing faintly at the dirt.

Isabela, abruptly, reached out and shoved her. " _Maker's flaming testicles_ , Hawke!"

Hawke actually stumbled back a step, off guard and completely off her balance in her silly strappy footwear, and gave Isabela an utterly bewildered look. "Bela, what --?"

"Oh, I can't _believe_ you! No, I'm not mad about the sodding ship! You were right, Hawke! You are _always bloody right_! You were right about handing over the Tome, and you were right about helping that Warden in the Deep Roads, and you were right about killing Castillon, because you have never done the wrong thing in your entire Tainted _life_! You're a hero, you're the damn Champion of Kirkwall, you could have anyone in that room, you could have Sebastian, or... or someone _good_ , someone who wouldn't sell out a thousand slaves and victims and double-cross _you_ for a stupid _boat_!"

"... ship," corrected Hawke, as blankly and dumbfoundedly as Isabela had a moment before.

"Why don't you _care_ , Hawke? When are you going to stop fixing my messes and inviting me to parties I don't belong at and _offering to hand me my Maker-taken dream!?_ When are you going to notice what I really am?"

Hawke caught her hands and brought them gently together between hers, which was when Isabela noticed that she had been about to shove her again, and Maker's balls, she was acting like a complete child, what had Hawke _done_ to her?

"Isabela."

It was soft-spoken, but it stopped her cold. Or maybe that was the warmth of Hawke's hands, or in her eyes, oddly bright in the falling dusk.

"I know what you are. You're the woman who's seen Merrill home more times than I can count, no matter how drunk and tired you are. The one who hands bread to street urchins on the docks when she thinks no one's looking. The one who freed a bunch of slaves at insane risk to herself, who walked into a warzone to try to save lives when she had no reason to go back and every reason not to. The one who made me laugh when my brother was lost and my sister was stolen and my mother was murdered and I didn't think I could ever even smile again. The one who drags me into spider's nests and slaver dens looking for nonexistent treasure, and drags me back out again by the skin of our teeth with a pair of torn trousers and a good story to show for it and not a thing beyond that. I know who you are, Isabela," she said fiercely. "You're my joy, my _light_ , and I don't _want_ anyone else."

Isabela swallowed, and blinked against the suddenly blurry night. "Hawke..." she started weakly. "That sounds an awful lot like you're trying to bring feelings into this."

Hawke tilted her chin up, and she was clearly trying to sound as brash and carefree as she always did, but there was something a little nervous and defiant in her response.

"And what if I am? A girl's not allowed to change her mind?"

Isabela stared at her, elegant and sensual in her tightly-fitted dress, wine-red silk over brown-red skin just as silky between faint scars, strength like steel visible everywhere underneath, wild as a storm on the water when she laughed, warmth like the sun over Rivain in the way she looked at Isabela when they woke wrapped around each other. In the way she had looked at Isabela a moment before, voice filled with conviction to build a Chantry on.

"Only --" Isabela started shakily, then caught Hawke's eyes and held them, and started again. "Only if you don't mind if I change mine."

Hawke's false bravado bloomed into genuine delight, and she grinned toothily. "You know, that's what I love most about you, Bela. Predictable as a blind bronto aboveground."

"I hope I didn't just hear you compare me to a bronto."

"Well, you do snore like one."

"You know what? I _changed my mind_ ," she lilted. "You're an ass, and I'm not even a little bit in love."

Hawke leaned forward until the breadth of a feather lay between their lips. "Well, how about plain old lust, then?"

Isabela smiled into the kiss. "Lust, I can do."

A low chuckle, almost a purr, slipped from Hawke's throat as she backed Isabela, step by step, toward the nearest sturdy aspen, nipping along Isabela's jaw as they went, Isabela tipping her head back and sliding her hands up deliciously muscled arms.

"In that case, allow me to make something clear to you," murmured Hawke between tantalizing just-firm-enough bites. "Those nobles in there? They're pretty. Pretty, pompous asses. It's fun to blueball an uptight prig going on about Meredith's wonderful reforms." They reached the tree, and Hawke's right hand slipped to Isabela's hemline, sliding up to her knee beneath the dress. "And Sebastian is adorable when he blushes, and Norah moves faster with drinks when she's having fun."

Shit, Hawke had noticed that. Isabela almost spoke, but Hawke hit that spot just below her ear and she hissed instead, fingers digging into Hawke's shoulders.

"But none of them, Bela, will ever feel _this_. My lips on their neck, soft and wet." She closed her teeth lightly on the tendon there, then stroked the sharpness away with the tip of her tongue, sparking heat down Isabela's spine and drawing an approving, throaty moan from her. "My hands on their thighs, searching ever higher." She slid Isabela's skirt further up her legs, lifting Isabela's knee to her own waist and pressing her hips forward between her legs, the soft silky fabric of her dress sliding cool against Isabela's skin as she hooked her leg to pull Hawke in closer.

Hawke leaned in, her breath hot against Isabela's ear. "My cunt around their fingers, slick and clenching."

Isabela swallowed, her mouth dry, and managed a smirk. "I'm not feeling that either, Hawke."

Her lover grinned like a wolf. "Patience, Bela," she said, as she dipped her hands into Isabela's cleavage and ripped her dress in half down the front.

"Patience, right," Isabela snorted. "You know, my very favorite lover gave me that dress."

"I'm sure she'll buy you another," smirked Hawke, pressing her knee forward against the tree, her thigh driving up against Isabela's core until she had to go up on her toes, her mouth dipping to Isabela's collarbone, and Isabela rocked against the pressure and threaded her hands into Hawke's loose, ribbon-threaded hair.

She felt Hawke smile against her skin, then a quick pulse of fire right to her clit as Hawke's thigh dropped away, leaving her bereft of that delicious friction. "Hawke, dammit," she complained, trying to pull her closer, then trailed off into a gasp at the quick flick of a tongue tip against one nipple, a pleasant jolt quickly mirrored on the other, soon turned steady by clever thumbs stroking and circling through the brief moisture. Hawke's fingers danced along the underside of her breasts, tracing the sensitive seam where they met her ribs, and Isabela pulled uselessly at Hawke's dress, trapped against her body by its snug fastenings and Isabela's own clutching leg.

Hawke chuckled against Isabela's stomach, moving lower, lifting Isabela's leg over her shoulder and dipping her tongue into Isabela's navel, a swirling liquid line of heat that Isabela felt firing through every nerve in her body and twice between her legs. " _Hawke_ ," she insisted, tugging at Hawke's hair, and Hawke chuckled even harder, but slid down obediently, letting her hands follow to pull free the laces at the side of Isabela's smallclothes. At the first hot puff of breath against her slit Isabela almost bucked forward, and Hawke looked up at her with a self-satisfied grin.

"I wish you could see how wet you are for me," she murmured, stroking a finger along Isabela's lips, teasing through the slick, pressing fleeting against her entrance. "So hot and welcoming. It's all for you, Isabela. My lips." She kissed the inside of Isabela's thigh. "My fingers." She slid two inside Isabela, swift and easy, and Isabela rocked forward instinctively to sink them further, to bury Hawke deep in her wanting, hungry cunt. "My tongue." She flicked the tip once under Isabela's hood, and Isabela gave an incoherent shout.

"Just for you, Isabela." She pulled her fingers out slowly, then slid back in, curling forward, fleeting feathering pressure against Isabela's inner walls, and Isabela thrashed on her hand. "Just your soft breasts, your slick heat, your sweet-salt skin." She licked along Isabela's slit again for emphasis, the flat of her tongue laving Isabela's clit. "Whenever you want. However you want. I'm yours, and no one else's."

" _Hawke--!_ "

Hawke's lips curled around her, her tongue dancing fast and hot and wet against her clit, her fingers stroking harder now, filling her, inflaming her pulsing flesh, and Isabela shouted again as she came, head rocked back, her cry ringing off the stone walls and shaking the leaves above them.

Hawke brushed her mouth over the remnants of Isabela's dress, still clinging to her thigh, and rose, grinning, to kiss her sweetly as she drew her fingers slowly out. Isabela trembled as she did, and couldn't tell which was the source. And stranger, didn't particularly care. She wrapped her arms loosely around Hawke's shoulders, and smiled at her taste on the Champion's lips. "I think you're forgetting something, Hawke."

"Oh?" Hawke raised a curious eyebrow.

Isabela grinned wickedly, and slid her heel behind Hawke's ankle as she took her shoulders and shoved.

Hawke went down completely this time, tumbling over backward into the soft moss and manicured grass with Isabela riding her the whole way, leaving Hawke flopped supine with her hands on Isabela's legs and Isabela on her knees straddling her stomach. "Absolutely. I distinctly remember you saying something about my fingers in your cunt."

Hawke dropped her arms out to her sides in surrender. "The night is yet young," she said happily, and laughed up into the starry sky.

**Author's Note:**

>  _The body bends  
>  The heart sickens  
> For what we wish would be  
> And haunted ports  
> And storms await  
> Upon the greener sea.  
> So sail ye calm  
> And sate thy lust  
> With that the Maker gives  
> For all He made  
> Have all they need  
> Where love and honor lives._  
> \- #126, The Collected Poems of Sister Petrine


End file.
